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2011-10-04 - Smoke and Ash, Signifying Terror
In a city as busy as New York, chances are those that watch the night are familiar with spotting others in unusual costumes roaming the rooftops or flying about. Some might be severe or paranoid enough to seek out and investigate such folks on sight. Others would only approach if they spotted something worth their attention. It is a matter of perspective. This night in New York City, there is another 'costume' - sometimes called a 'cape', though this one isn't wearing one of those garments - out on the rooftops. This one doesn't climb up to the rooftop. Instead the gold-accented purple-clad figure arrives on the rooftop astride what looks like a motorcycle ... that flies. Clearly female, the figure is 'flying' parallel to the streets below, but only glances down once in a long while, until reaching a particular rooftop. Whatever her reasons, she lands here and dismounts, making her way towards the edge of the rooftop, crouching low so as to not present much to be seen from those on the streets. She peeks over the edge of the roof, watching something or someone across the many-lane road, at another building. This one seems to house a nightclub, given the signage visible. After a few moments, the purple-clad figure extracts something from a pouch at her waist and lifts it to her eyes, looking through it down below. Even as she watches, her other hand reaches up past her shoulder, extracting a sizeable sword. She lays this across her lap as she continues to watch, intently. Tonight has been like any other night: patrol. While truthfully she has to maintain some sort of public life - being a socialite has its disadvantages after all - night is mostly taken up by patrol when the duties of the civilian life aren't beckoning. Tonight she is on her own and has taken to the rooftops, rather than patrol by the street below. The crouched figure, which she spots only thanks to the brightest of the costume against the dull New York building roofs, makes her frown. A hand goes down to her belt, retrieving her grappling line. It fires, near-silently, only the dull noise of metal on concrete alerting anyone with keen enough senses - or just plain paying attention - that something happened. A dull thud of impact, perhaps the slightest of metallic clanks or clinks, is all the notice the purple-clad figure gets. It's enough to make her pause, head lifting, looking around herself with curiosity. Whomever she may be, she can't actually see anything worth worrying about, and there's something else that has her attention and intent going on below. Her hand on the blade's handle flexes, as if anticipating being put to use soon on whomever or whatever it is she's watching so intently. As she pulls herself across the gap in buildings, Batwoman spreads her cape. It's something she's done many times in the past, on purpose. It is something she saw her namesake do, once, and it has proven quite effective in the past at scaring the tar out of the criminal element. Either that or upsetting them greatly. She lands neatly, in a crouch, and stands quickly, the cape folding behind her. Is it the flap of the cape? The whirr of the grapple retracting? The cruching of the boots on the rooftop? Whatever it is, the purple-clad woman turns swiftly from her crouch, the blade coming up as she assumes a fighting crouch, eyeing the caped figure now sharing her rooftop. She looks the other woman up and down thoroughly, but there is none of the signs of instant brand recognition Batwoman is probably used to in this city. It's as if this woman sees her, assesses her capabilities, but has no idea who she is, what her reputation may be. A soft voice, made as harsh as she can manage - not very, but still there's a little growl in it - speaks from behind that gold-edged purple mask, altered by something likely built into it. "Who are you supposed to be?" she questions. There's even a bit of flutter of red hair. "I'm Batwoman," she says, her voice a low, almost growl-like noise. "And you're operating in my city." Those white eyes narrow, and she nods towards the weapon. The sword. "What do you think you're going to do with that?" She's Batwoman, hunh? Whatever the reasons, the name doesn't seem to mean much to the woman in purple and gold. She looks carefully, but doesn't approach, or threaten. Just holds her defensive position. "The sword? Well, at the moment I'm going to hold it in a guard position, ready to defend myself from someone I don't know. I had been planning on using it very differently, but that seems to have been interrupted for the moment." Interestingly enough, whomever this woman is she doesn't seem inclined to challenge Batwoman's possessiveness of the city. Whatever that might mean. Of course, Batwoman's not moving. "How about you tell me what you think you were going to use it for." Story time. She loves story time. She doesn't seem to have lined up some sort of defensive or offensive posture, either. For the moment she's just watching Voodoo. "You have a name?" The other woman gives a little snort at that. "I've got lots of names, 'Batwoman'." It's almost true, but there's a tone that makes it sound more braggadoccio than reality. "Usually Voodoo, when I'm in this getup." She glances over her shoulder, taking a bit longer than just a glance, then turns to look back at Batwoman. "I was going to use this to take out the guards around my target. Professional bodyguards usually don't just get out of the way because you ask nice. You have to insist." "So I've noticed." In that moment of looking back, she steps a bit closer. "Understand, I'm going to have to insist on knowing what sort of target you think you're taking on." She of course can't see from the other side of the roof, but she is curious... though she carefully controls her voice to remove any sense of overt curiosity. "I can't have people deciding to pick on the ordinary citizens down there." This Voodoo chick doesn't seem too worried that Batwoman got closer. She also doesn't seem surprised. "You're going to have to insist? Really?" she questions. There's a good-natured bantering tone to her question, rather than the uppity anger one might expect. As if she is more amused than annoyed at the presumption. "So, you want to protect the citizens of this city? Great. You have fun with that. I'm just trying to take a very nasty, dangerous predator out of your people preserve, Batwoman. I'm hoping I won't have to kill his bodyguards. Frankly, I am reasonably sure they're just doing their jobs, earning paychecks. I don't think any of them have any idea what kind of monster they're protecting." Eyes narrow again. Really, is there another look she knows? "What are they protecting?" This time, curiosity is obvious. "What sort of monster is it they're unwittingly protecting?" She approaches now, still not in any kind of combatative stance. Instead, she's damn well wanting to see what Voodoo is looking at, reaching for a set of microbinoculars on her belt. "Where?" Voodoo turns to the side, letting Batwoman approach. She lowers the blade a bit, to be less threatening, and points - without looking - towards a knot of people approaching a limo idling in front of the club. "Right there. The older guy in the middle, obviously. Don't know who he is. But I know what's riding him, and that alone is enough. My guess is its after money and connections. A site like that is ideal for pulling in high-end clientelle and arranging riders for them too." "Riding?" Batwoman asks, turning to look at Voodoo. "You mean possession?" She's not trying to correct, merely looking for clarification. "All right. Let's say I believe you that something is riding that man. What is that something?" Binoculars to her eyes, watching the target. Voodoo nods. "Yeah. 'Possession'. Sorry, I don't use the big words much." She's not really snarking. She sounds genuine. Not every super is super-brainy with the vocabulary. "You've probably never heard of them. They're an alien race. The English for them is 'Daemonite'. I can't tell from here if the whole place is a nest, or if he's alone right now. But he's the only one in that knot down there on the street." "Daemonite," Batwoman repeats. "I'm not going to say you're wrong outright. This world is messed up enough for me to know not everything is as it seems." But. "Any way you can force that thing out of him - assuming you're being honest. A little proof goes a long way." She considers their options here, counting the bodyguards. "The bodyguards shouldn't be a problem." "I have to get pretty close to do that. Touch, preferably. Hence why I have to disable the bodyguards." Voodoo answers. "And when I do it, I have to either torch the damned thing once its out, or make very sure we're not near anyone else." Otherwise, she'll have to start all over again. "That's what the thermite lance is for." Which might be the strange 'pipe bomb'-looking thing on the side of the bike. Pretty nasty stuff, that. "I hate trusting people when I don't have the proof in front of me," she confesses. However... "Tell you what. You leave the guards to me. That'll focus his attention. You slip behind him and do what you have to do." And hopefully, if Voodoo is lying, she can move fast enough to react. Batwoman fingers her grappling line again, getting it out once more. "How long do you need before you can get down there?" "You know, I didn't ask you to trust me. I /can/ do this myself." Voodoo comments. Not that she's going to fight Batwoman for the chance to fight those bodyguards. But she's making a point about who intruded upon whom. "If I use the bike, I can get down there in about ten, maybe fifteen seconds. I can get to him within three seconds after that, assuming I don't get a face or a gut full of buckshot for my troubles. You really sure you want to get involved?" "You're right, you didn't. I'm not the type who turns away, however." She flicks her wrist and the grapple line fires. "Besides. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see this... Daemonite." Aliens possessing people. Who knew? And with that, Batwoman is in the air. As she approaches the men, she drops three smoke pellets towards the ground. The result is a big cloud of smoke, perfect for confusion. She presses a button on her grapple which releases it, allowing her to retract the device as she dives downwards, landing on one guard, then rolling to her feet. Voodoo shakes her head. Crazy human chics, they get her every time. Once Batwoman dives into action, she runs and jumps on her bike, launching it into the air and swooping down towards the alleyway beside the club. Twelve seconds to cover that distance and land without crashing. Three more to get around the corner and into the mess. Her eyes flash to purple as she taps into her telepathy to 'see' what is going on, and who is where in this smokey mess. The bodyguards didn't see Batwoman approaching until it was too late. They try to cover their charge and shuffle towards the limo, but suddenly they're surrounded by smoke in all directions, noises going off this way and that, and one of their own just went down with a thump and a groan. "Cover the principle!" they shout, forming up a tight ring around him and trying to resume their direction of travel to the car. But they're not quite going the right way. The smoke is not a hindrance to Batwoman, the necessary technology built into her cowl to help her see through the smoke. One of the guards, a little slow on his feet, meets with a boot to the head. The sounds of a confused fight echo through the streets afterwards. Shots ring out, missing Batwoman as she is just fast enough and the smoke is just enough to hide her effectively. She does what she can to draw the men away from their boss, though they are well-trained and not so easy to lure away. With the crowds around, the professional bodyguards aren't going to draw pistols and fire. Instead, most draw telescoping batons, ready to do battle as they protect their charge. It would seem an almost impossible challenge, but neither of these women is the sort to give up. Voodoo slips into their minds and pushes, convincing them that they have their charge, even as she has instead directed them away from him, guarding empty space. It's not easy, and she's getting a headache trying to juggle so many individuals' perceptions. But it should separate them enough to give Batwoman the opening she needs. Because that will give Voodoo the opening she needs. C'mere, Daemonite scum! It does indeed give Batwoman the opening she needs. It'll become easier, slowly but surely, for Voodoo as Batwoman knocks out one guard after the other. It's a good thing that her costume is reinforced. More than once the men manage a lucky shot in and the batons impact against her armored costume. It'll be sore in the morning. She'll be bruised. But at least nothing's broken! The man - Voodoo's target - has his full attention on the Batwoman, shouting at the remaining bodyguards to get back to him. The man keeps shouting ... but the guards cannot hear him. Voodoo makes sure of that, long enough to slip through the fog of all that smoke and get her hand on him, grabbing his neck from behind. "Surprise, m*th*rf*ck*r!" she shouts, and then she drops all of her other telepathic efforts and slams the full force of her power down on the Daemonite inside this man's body. There's even a lightshow of arcing purple 'lightning' around her eyes, her hand, and intermittently across the guy's body as he arches and twists, screaming in agony. But something ... something is happening. "How's it going over there?" Batwoman calls out. She can't see there for the moment. The last of the men is giving her the most trouble. It's a back and forth, block-punch-block sort of thing, until Batwoman manages to nail him between the eyes, sending him sailing back. Hearing no response, she turns around in time to be met with a light show. "....whoa." The lightshow actually grows more intense, as Voodoo lays it on heavy. The crackles of purple lightning intensify and condense, congealing around the man's chest and head, starting to pour up through his throat as he continues screaming. Something vaguely insubstantial takes shape, being expelled slowly up and through the body, gaining more color - a dark, almost burnt grey-green-purple mess - as the process continues. Eventually it resolves into an emaciated yet powerful vaguely humanoid figure, somewhat like a buff skekzeez (from the Dark Crystal, if you're familiar with it), being pulled like taffy up and out of the human form that is being left behind, still screaming. Those white slits that pass for eyes on Batwoman's cowl widen. Geezus. She doesn't back up, to her credit. Thank goodness Voodoo was able to lure the men away, or else Batwoman would have one of those things riding her. She is ready to act if need be, but has no idea what good she could do against such an opponent. Voodoo screams as she cuts the bonds between the Daemonite and the human host, letting the man collapse, finally silent, to the concrete of the sidewalk. The Daemonite screeches in fury and launches itself at Voodoo, claws out and ready to take its terrible vengeance. But the crazy lady in purple came prepared for this. Out comes that pipe-bomb looking thing, and she smacks one end into the concrete with a clanking 'snap'. Sparks fly, and the other end flares to a searing, blinding blue-white heat. A thermite lance. Her psionic powers struggle to hold the enranged Daemonite, as she surges forward and drives that thermite lance into its body. Zzwooosh! Eyes wide. Now there's a fireworks show for you! Questions flood the Batwoman's head as she watches the monstrous alien flare into the best light show this side of the Fourth of July. And a disturbing thought occurs: how many of these things are lurking throughout the city? The scream of the burning Daemonite is ... painful. Unpleasant. And long. But it does end, as the Daemonite goes up in thermite-fueled flames, and collapses into ash on the sidewalk. Messy. Voodoo is glad for the coverage of her facemask, as she doesn't cough and choke on the stuff. She smacks the lance again on the ground, and the cap breaks down into the top, bubbling and melting, sealing the end, cutting off the oxygen and finally ending the chemical reaction. "Well, there. One toasted Daemonite." she declares, and kneels down to check on the fallen man. "Grab one of their phones and call 9-1-1. This guy is going to need medical attention to recover." But he will recover. It's a quick action for her part. Snag cellphone, make the call. "I have to admit," she says, "I had my doubts." She eyes the pile of ash. "So... it's harmless like that, right? No crazy rituals we need to do to keep it from coming back?" Voodoo shakes her head. "It's not a demon. It's a Daemonite. I smoke them like that to make /sure/ they can't come back. And because it makes sure there's no real evidence for anyone else." Because the last thing anyone in this world really needs is proof that something like Daemonites actually exist. Talk about a panic. "Let's go. Fast." That said, Voodoo runs for her bike. Clearly she is used to this hit and run tactic. "Three blocks north. Alley behind the office building." The grapple line goes off again, and Batwoman vanishes off into the rooftops even as Voodoo runs for her bike. If the woman goes for the meeting spot, Batwoman will be there, waiting patiently. Voodoo doesn't show up right away. She takes a circuit of the area, wanting to get a visual and see if there are perhaps any other Daemonites in the area who will respond to all of this. Once she has done her sweep and found nothing, however, she does seek out the meeting spot in question, landing in the alleyway. "So. Batwoman. Now you've actually seen a Daemonite. Not many humans ever see one and don't end up possessed." Is she saying she isn't human? Or that she's one of the rare few? That raises an eyebrow. "Not human yourself?" she questions. "Because you could've fooled me." Yeah, she had a moment to look. "Unless you're just having trouble as seeing us as anything but fodder for these daemonites." Voodoo shrugs. "I'm human enough." And saucy, from that tone of voice. "But I'm not kidding. Most any human sees a Daemonite, it's right before they're possessed, and it's the last thing they ever see as themselves. They're vile. They seek out humans of influence and power, and possess them in order to use those resources to their own ends. Unfortunately, that one had been in place a good while. Didn't know where the rest of his cell were anymore. They contacted him, not the other way around." She sounds really disappointed. A dead end in her vendetta. "I've noticed," Batwoman replies to the 'I'm human' declaration. She steps forward, offered a gloved hand. "I have to say I'm almost terrified of the idea that those things are running around. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, I suppose." Voodoo glances at the hand, then steps forward and accepts it, giving a firm squeeze with the shake. "It's true. It can be scary crap. They're not exactly common. But they do seem to amass in the more populous cities with a lot of power and influence. So they're probably a lot more common here than in a lot of places. I have been in town a month or two, and I have already found three." She says that like it's a lot. But only someone who knows that she and the team she used to hunt with would often go months without a confirmed Daemonite would realize why it's so exceptional. As they shake hands, something seems to happen, those deep blue eyes melting into purple again, but only briefly. The smile doesn't show through the mask, but it sounds in the honey-warm lilt in her voice. "Hmmm. Pretty human yourself, aren't ya?" Where did that come from? It's unusual for people to talk like that to her. She shakes the hand firmly, for a moment her eyes widening in surprise. Voodoo checked her out? Perhaps she let a bit slip. Maybe she needs to spend more time in her civilian ID. "Mm. Thank you," she answers, allowing herself a little laugh. It almost sounds warm. What to say now? "...how long have you been fighting those things?" Voodoo catches the limiter that falls down on those warmer, interested feelings, and she respects it enough not to keep pushing, though there is definitely an edge of sensuality to her movements that wasn't there before. "Mmmm. A bit less than five years." Hard to imagine at times that it has been five years since she hooked up with a team of underground alien hunters. They knew about her powers, her ability to see the riders. They trained her, and she joined up. It changed her life and gave her a purpose. She misses them. But the purpose lives on. "How long you been swooping around the rooftops at night, Beautiful Bat?" "Sometimes I'm on the ground. With a motorcycle," she answers at first. "Sometimes in the air." She has quite the assortment of toys to play with. "As for the answer..." Her voice seems a bit softer. She doesn't quite have that honeyed lilt that Voodoo does, but she's softening a little. Trust and attraction combined? Or maybe it's just nice to actually talk to someone. "About a year.." "Mmmm. A woman who loves her toys. I can respect that." Voodoo answers. She's only lightly teasing. Most of it is just the truth. But that doesn't remove the undercurrent. "Lots of prep work before that, I'll bet." Voodoo glances around for a moment, as if she heard something, or sensed it in some other way. "Alright, Batwoman. For tonight, I think that's enough. Thanks, for helping. You be careful." She wouldn't want to see Batwoman with a rider. She turns, ready to head for her bike, then turns back and reaches into that pouch at her belt, producing a hand-written card with ten digits on it. "You find something, hear something, send me a message. I'll come if I can." That said, the woman in purple - it really does blend in well to the darkness, given a chance - slinks off and straddles the bike, lifting off into the night sky.